


Glory Be

by Mothfinder_General



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfinder_General/pseuds/Mothfinder_General
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysandre takes a bath like some kind of sex machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glory Be

When he stood in the late afternoon light at just that angle, wearing just that face, he looked like a painting. Words fell short of perfectly describing the quality of the way he looked; it was better considered as a fragment of beauties making up a whole. The light. The shadow. The sense of kinetic energy briefly tamed. The colour. The low sound of the leaves stirring in the wind. The battered places of his hands, the tension in his shoulders.

"Does it hurt?" Professor Sycamore asked tenderly. Lysandre snorted.

"Of course it hurts," he replied, turning sharply away; the exquisite composition of his stance broke down and the world seemed to exhale. "They are boxing injuries, if they didn’t hurt I’d be concerned that there was something wrong with my nerve endings. The point is not whether they hurt or not."

"What is the point?"

"Whether I can go on being hurt and for how long."

This statement made the Professor uneasy in a way he didn’t want to parse. Instead he said, “Perhaps a hot bath? I find them very helpful for relieving tension.”

Lysandre gave him a steady glare and he panicked and went into Overshare. “In fact I have very good ideas in the bath. I started work on the transdimensional wingshaft in dragon-types theory in the bath. A bubble bath actually. Lavender-scented. And I like to run them hot and get good and sweaty. I’ve always been amazed by how much my feet sweat. Particularly when I’m excited, _vraiment bizarre_.”

"That," said Lysandre, "is revolting. Nevertheless, you’re not without a point yourself," and here he inclined his head slightly, ironically. "I’ll run a bath. I’m sure you can amuse yourself."

And so Professor Sycamore attempted to amuse himself with some reading, or rather, staring blankly at the same page for ten minutes. Lysandre’s small library room, in his Lumiose City apartment, was within hearing distance of the bathroom, particularly if you opened the door wide and moved the chair and strained really hard to listen. He could hear the water sloshing and this was enough to send him into fantasy paroxysms.

It was because of this careful eavesdropping that he heard the sound of a sharp breath, a subdued snarl, a muttered, “ _Nique ta mère_.” He had flung himself out of the chair and was propelling himself down the hallway before his brain had time to stop his muscles. The momentum got him all the way to the bathroom door before his brain kicked in.

"Uh, are you alright, mon ami?"

"Fine," said Lysandre gruffly, in a voice that suggested he was not fine.

"Your voice suggests you are not fine," trilled Professor Sycamore, taking refuge in jolly campness. "I’m coming in, _d’accord_? I don’t want you to drown, the police are already after me for being too handsome, they’ll make a murder charge stick like a Lickitung.”

He trotted into Lysandre’s bathroom.

(Lysandre’s bathroom looked like the inside of a really sexy inceberg. Gleaming porcelain glowed against blue-white walls; the basin and the bath were both capacious and gracefully curved. The taps were dull gold and looked custom-made. Here and there, very subtle, tiny golden or turquoise tiles were scattered among the white expanse, like trapped minerals. Professor Sycamore’s bathroom consisted of just about enough floor space for him to really hurt himself if he tripped on anything, a stand-up shower, a sink with a crack -  and more often than not, a cross Fletchinder watching him and waiting to be fed - and the most horrible bath mat known to man. Although Lysandre’s proximity and nudity were at the forefront of his mind, there was a tiny thought at the back that was wondering _who the hell cleans all this stuff?_ )

Lysandre was sat in his tub like a magnificent soapy Adonis. He looked unperturbed but very annoyed.

"Tried to wash my hair. Hurts to lift my arms," he said shortly.

It was only at this point that Professor Sycamore noticed the bottle of spilt shampoo on the floor by the bath.

"Do you want me to do it?" he asked, via his libido.

Lysandre regarded him. There were bruises at the join of his chest and shoulders the size of apples. “ _T’es gentil_ ,” he said finally. “Thank you.”

Something in Professor Sycamore thrilled all over and he dropped to his knees, approaching the bath on all fours. The spilt shampoo soaked through his trousers.

"Why are you crawling?" Lysandre demanded.

"Was I?" murmured the Professor, picking up the shampoo bottle. _Because that is how one should approach something holy - with respect and fear and adulation. And an erection, apparently._

He began on the task of washing Lysandre hair with excessive care. Dark red flames of hair licked through his fingers as he lathered. Lysandre tipped his head back and shut his eyes.

He traced the fine shape of Lysandre skull with his fingertips, held that big head in his hands the way he would have held a sick Pyroar’s. Lysandre had perfectly carved ears, surprisingly heavy earlobes that looked like cushions for sinking teeth into. Suds ran down the white column of his neck and Professor Sycamore couldn’t resist the urge to trace their passage with one finger, ending in the dove-like hollow of a collarbone.

Lysandre opened one eye and looked at him imperiously. “Rinse now,” he instructed in a low voice. “Don’t get any water in my eyes.”

Presumably Professor Sycamore was suppose to use the showerhead for this task, but he couldn’t bear the thought of that sudden jet of water - it would interrupt a tempo that he has started to work to, almost without realising. He fetched a tooth mug from the sink and used that instead, ladling water over Lysandre’s tipped-back head like an altar boy performing an obscure scared rite.

"Do you want me to wash anything else?" he asked in a hushed, respectful voice.

"No, I’ve finished," said Lysandre brusquely, and Professor Sycamore felt a terrible pang of disappointment. That is, until Lysandre stood up.

Professor Sycamore was still kneeling, so Lysandre rose over him like a god of hot water and steam and soapy bubbles. Water ran off him, framed him briefly like a cloak.

Their eyes met, although both of their views were partially obscured by Lysandre’s enormous hard-on. It would be fair to say, in fact, that their eyes met over his rock-solid cock. _Quelle romantism_ , thought Professor Sycamore.

"Towel," said Lysandre in the same imperious tone, and Professor Sycamore scrambled upright to get a towel. (These were white too. Professor Sycamore was faintly surprised, but then he chided himself. What was he expecting? Litleo-patterned ones? A crimson monogrammed towel with a chunky embroidered fleur-de-lis? Actually, yes, that was what he was expecting. Clearly he was far too déclassé to ever be allowed to have any money.)

Lysandre stepped out of the bath and stood in the middle of his glacial but very warm bathroom like a mixture of a classical statue (but bruised) and sheer pornography (but bruised).

Professor Sycamore dropped to his knees again.

"Come here," said Lysandre. "Carry the towel in your mouth. Good. Now, start with the feet."

Professor Sycamore began to towel Lysandre broad white feet, then worked his way up his shins, his firm calves, his immensely powerful thighs. Golden-red hairs shifted and lifted in his wake. The inside of Lysandre’s thighs were so beautifully pure, so exquisitvely delineated, that he couldn’t resist running his tongue along it, stopping just short of Lysandre’s balls. He felt a shiver go through him, pulled back with a smile, and felt something wet drop onto the end of his nose. He wiped it off with his fingers and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Mon ami," he purred, "you’re dripping."

Lysandre glanced disinterestedly at his cock and caressed himself briefly with just his fingertips, moving up and down once, twice, a third time. Another drop of pre-cum quivered at the tip. This time Professor Sycamore licked it off.

Lysandre slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Not yet,” he said coolly. “Towel.”

Professor Sycamore knelt up a little and brought the towel round to dry Lysandre’s excessively magificent arse. He had to put his mouth very close to Lysandre erection to do this, and delighted in the way it twitched every time he breathed out. Through the towel, he dug his fingers into those preposterously powerful cheeks, felt base and hungry and so, so turned on.

Next he crawled round and started to towel off Lysandre’s back. It looked too beautiful to be made of flesh and blood. It looked eternal and everlasting, even with the scars. He started at shoulders (broad and glorious) and literally slid the towel down the curve of his back, pressing both palms flat into it, over his arse, down the back of his thighs and then to the floor, sliding to the ground with it. He repeated his several times, rising and falling, rising and falling, like a strange and desperate manifestation of prayer.

"Come now, Professor," said Lysandre calmly. "There is still work to do. Stop collapsing."

Professor Sycamore whimpered in the back of his throat and staggered upright.

The chest and stomach were even more unbearably beautiful, burdened with bruises as they were. He moved in slow circles across the dense red chest hair, astonished again at the firmness of Lysandre’s stomach and pectorals. He was as perfectly delineated as an anatomy lesson. He watched his hands moving in their worshipful spirals and thought of whirling dervishes, thought about the ecstasy of dizziness, thought about the dizziness of ecstasy.

Lysamdre was biting down hard on his bottom lip.

"Does it hurt?" Professor Sycamore asked for the second time that day.

"Of course it hurts."

"Does it feel good?"

The faintest of smiles. “Oh, of course it feels good.”

Professor Sycamore started work on Lysandre’s arms. _Those muscles_ , he thought. _How can any one man make himself a body like this_ _? He must have been born with a particular beauty. This sort of thing cannot just happen._ _Mon dieu._

He dried Lysandre’s neck and beard with a pernickety delicacy, putting his mouth almost against Lysandre’s to do it. But he did not kiss, because one does not kiss something scared; one is chosen.

And when he was chosen, he saw the holy visions flickering behind his eyelids.

Lysandre kissed him for a long time, but he left his hands at his side. Professor Sycamore clung to him until he pulled away.

"Now," Lysandre said, "now, you may kneel."

Professor Sycamore knelt.

"You will take it in your mouth, won’t you?"

"Oui, oui, mon dieu, I’ll take it all."

"Say ‘merci, monseigneur’."

"Oh, oh, merci, monseigneur, merci, merci, I will not disappoint."

He worked his mouth up and down Lysandre’s hard cock like a man asked to worship with his tongue and lips alone. His prayers were quiet, wordless, and answered everytime Lysandre drew a sharp breath or hardened a little more. One hand lay on his head and guided him, heavy as a blessing.

When Lysandre pulled back, he felt another smart of disappointment. _Am I not good in your eyes? Oh, I am trying so hard to be good._

"Undress," said Lysandre, his voice roughened. "Quickly now."

Professor Sycamore went from clothed to butt naked in about three seconds. His own erection quivered but he forced himself not to touch it.

"Lie down now," said Lysandre. "The floor is cold and hard, I know. You must endure a little hardship to prove your worth."

"Yes, yes, I understand, I understand," the Professor gasped, and flung himself down.

Lysandre descended. _Wheeee_ , thought Professor Sycamore, a little sacrilegiously.

Lysandre lifted his hips, slid himself in. There was only saliva to lubricate him, but Professor Sycamore reached down and held himself apart, spread himself, urging Lysandre deeper. _I am trying so very hard to be good. See how good I can be._

They began to pant in unison, Lysandre’s thrusts meeting with Professor Sycamore grinding in a primal rhythm.

"Put your arms around my neck," whispered Lysandre, and Professor Sycamore reached up and wrapped himself around him, his heart singing with joy. Deep waves of pleasure were washing over him, confusing his thoughts. _The ecstasy of dizziness, the dizziness of ecstasy_.

And when he started to cry out, ecstatically, and his cries awoke a beast in Lysandre, the growls and snarls and moans, and when they at last matched the final cry together, they hips pounding into one another, Professor Sycamore felt the completeness of prayer granted.

 _Hallelujah_ , he thought as he lay underneath Lysandre, his mouth against his neck, their heartbeats slowing together. _Hallelujah_.


End file.
